to the girl 3 seats over on the f train.

You are papyrus to a scribe
Your highness, I'd describe you
As the finest kind of wine that ages so well
It rewinds the time (-winds the time)

You aren't wine
You are the fibers of the vine, divine, you are defined
In Webster's as the climate of the Caribbean
Me and you should burn together like we're fire and kerosene
You plundered through my chest and stole my heart, a pirate of the fairer being
Midas sighed and let his sinuses unwind and golden ether culminated into you
The lioness to her pride, I heard you sculpted King Poseidons diamond trident at his side
The surest sign of suicide for me would be that you had died
The God of Death, Osiris, Isis and her ibis-headed mask
Would guide you down a spiral staircase into Cyprus if you asked
You are the ripest stalk of Cairo-grown papyrus to this scribe
I've got no stylus to describe you as the finest kind of wine
That ages so well it rewinds the time, no, you aren't wine
You are the Carolina pines, and I'm so sorry that you aren't mine